Welcome to my world!

My life's been crazy since my Daddy moved in with me immediately after my mother's death in October 2010. My one and only kiddo headed to college at Carolina at the end of August. So...I lived on my own, for the first time in my life, for a total of a blissful six weeks. Then, I started the parenting gig with my dad. He's a combination of a grouchy old man, a surly teenager and a temperamental toddler. Needless to say, I get very close to the brink of insanity sometimes. I get through life by finding the humor in difficult circumstances. And for some reason, I wind up in the weirdest situations. I couldn't make this stuff up. So I wind up having lots and lots crazy adventures which make great stories to share with my friends. Writing about my life is so therapeutic. My ramblings range from funny to sad to angry (full of cuss words) to sweet. While my focus is dealing with the trials and tribulations of being a parent to my Daddy, I have lots of random, totally unrelated posts. Whatever's on my mind. I love to make people laugh, and I'm happy to think my readers will get my strange sense of humor. And maybe, people who are in my situation will be encouraged. That's all I can hope for...

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Something Beautiful

This is so random, but I just have a minute, and I'm excited about this!  I just ordered it from Etsy.  It's kinda pricey for me, but I'm sure it'll be worth every penny, because it's just so incredibly lovely.

Wish I could write more, but it's been crazy and I have to go.  Out in the rain.  To buy milk for The Daddler, plus stuff to make beef stew.  It's a perfect crock pot day.

Over and out...

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

The Cold Blooded Killer Among Us

Sally.  She's a bad seed.  Full of blood-lust.  She shredded a poor squirrel Saturday.  I was lounging on the sofa when Lucy and The Daddler came strolling in from their daily walk.  Lucy ran to me and commenced her lascivious licking.  The D said, "He just eat a baby squirrel."  I recoiled in horror at the thought of squirrel-carcass-laden saliva being lavishly slathered on my forearm and face.

It took a full 10 minutes of cross-examination, complete with a game of Charades, to determine that it was Sally, not Lucy, who'd brutally murdered a cute little squirrel with his life stretching out before him.  I asked The Witness if he'd interred the remains of the victim.  He said, "Naw.  I told you, he eat 'im!"  I found it hard to believe that the dog had devoured ALL of the squirrel, and I had flashbacks to the explosive diarrhea episode from a few weeks before, so I grabbed two blue plastic newspooper bags (I coined that term) and high-tailed it to the back yard.  I explained to The D how to put his hand in the bag and grab the body and turn the bag inside out.  He said, in the rudest tone possible, "I know how to do it."  Keep in mind, he's only picked up dog poop ONCE.  And that was after he saw a story on the local news that it was illegal to let your dog shit around town.  And the only reason I know that is because I happened to see him stroll up the driveway after a walk with the Queen of Turds, Lucy, holding the shiny blue package of poop.  That was cool.  Until I encountered said sac swarming with flies at the end of the driveway.  I guess he didn't want to stink up the garbage can. 

Back to the back yard.  Turns out, Sadistic, Satanic Sally hadn't eaten the entire squirrel.  Because after she did her usual Tigger imitation upon seeing us, she grabbed the remainder of the rodent and started sprinting around the yard.  I let out a blood-curdling scream.  I even scared myself.  And I kept screaming.  Something about seeing the bloody entrails of a cute baby animal being slung around playfully, like a Frisbee, in the jaws of a member of my family, triggered a visceral, guttural reaction in me.  When I finally caught up with the killer, who was loving every minute of the chase, I snatched her by her harness (it was reminiscent of how I'd stopped her from severing Lucy's aorta not two weeks earlier,) and she dropped her quarry.  I was queasy.  The Daddler took over.  I don't know what he did with the squirrel.  All I know is that garbage pickup was two days later and the weather was cooler.  And I didn't see the blue body bag.

Monday, September 16, 2013

Sometimes Justice Prevails


I just got my latest ComCrap bill.  My credit balance is down to $416.73.  I'm not finished with them yet, but I've had bigger fish to fry.  In the form of Lowe's and AT&T.

By the way.  If you're ever in the market for a major appliance, go to Sears.  If you value your sanity, that is.  I needed a refrigerator for one of my rental houses.  I called Lowe's to see how long it would take to get a fridge delivered, and after pressing 8 for appliances (had to listen to 1 through 7 first, of course,) someone answered.  When I said I wanted to check the delivery wait for a refrigerator, I was told to hold for the appliance department.  Why the FUCK did I have to suffer through the phone tree?

Surprisingly, an "associate" answered within a minute or two.  The operative syllable being "ass."  Dude was channeling Barry White.  I told him I needed a fridge, and asked him if they had any good deals on a dented floor model.  He said, and I quote, "Come see me and I'll show you something good."  I said, "How much is it?"  He said, "It retails for $2,800, but I can give it to you for $1,400."

I told him that was out of my budget, but I asked him how long it would take to deliver an in-stock model.  He said three to five days.  I asked if that was three to five business days or three to five real life, powdered-milk and peanut butter days.  He told me to come see him and he'd see what he could do.

So somewhere in the primitive portion of my brain, there sprung a vision of Sears.  Which was especially appealing since there's still a Non-Mall Store about 3 miles from my house.  So adorably anachronistic.  Which makes me think of Gimbels.  Horn and Hardart Automat.

The Sears Christmas Wish Book.  Quick Curl Barbies.  The picture in the 1972 fall catalog's men's underwear section with an unfortunately (or not - depending on how you see it) well-endowed male model's member descending below the level of decency. 

Wow.  I digress.  Bottom line, though, is that there's a real refrigerator residing in the rental right now.  Hallelujah.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

The Rumble

Yesterday was traumatic.  It started out calmly enough.  Mid-morning, while I was upstairs getting ready to go out and run errands, I heard The Daddler come in the back door and scream for me.  A few minutes earlier, I'd heard Lucy and Sally growling and barking at each other in the back yard.  It sounded more serious than their usual sisterly knock-down-drag-outs, so I looked out the upstairs window to check, and I saw The D standing by the fence, so I didn't worry.  Normal behavior for snack time.
This time, though, it escalated.  And the way Daddy was hollering, I knew something was terribly wrong.  Other than the awful shingles episodes when he first came to live with me, and the time he thought I was asleep when he was ready to go to his doctor's appointment (I wasn't,) I've never heard such panic or distress in his voice.  So I sprinted out the door, fully expecting to see one or both of the dogs with their aorta(s) ripped to shreds.  Fortunately, it wasn't that bad.  They were one mangled, muddy mass snarling and barking and rolling around at the bottom of the hill.  The Daddler had tried to break up the fight by spraying them with water from the hose.  Needless today, that didn't help.
I ran barefoot down the hill and grabbed Sally (who weighs 50 lbs.) by her harness and pulled her off Lucy.  I was surprised when Lucy (35 lbs.) jumped right back in.  I was standing there, covered in mud and blood and slobber, trying to get The Daddler to help me.  Bless his heart - he must've been pretty upset because he had a hard time figuring out how to help.  But I was shouting out one different command after another.  Finally, I got him to take Lucy, and I locked Sally into the back part of the yard.  I took Lucy inside and told D to watch Sally.  I knew right away that my Little Lulu was in bad shape.  She had lots of bite wounds on her neck and ears and she had a severe limp.  And she looked like she was in shock.  Those sweet, sad brown eyes.
So I grabbed a towel and snatched her up in it.  Got my purse and keys and ordered The D to get in the car with us.  We drove straight to the vet's office (just two miles away, thank God.)  When we burst in the door, the receptionist jumped into action, announcing an emergency, and requesting a doctor.  I swear, I think I could hear that theme music from ER playing in the background.  They ushered us into the first exam room, and then I burst into tears.
I could describe every little detail which followed, but instead, I'll just sum it up quickly. 
We returned to the vet with Sally a little later - she hadn't come out unscathed.  Four hours, $300, and a week's supply of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories later, we were home with two sad, bruised, penitant puppies.  At least they were clean, though.  Lucy was still bleeding, so I wrapped a piece of cotton from a torn sheet around her neck as a bandage.  We had a little snuggle time on the sofa, while The Daddler looked on.
I headed upstairs, took a long, hot bath to wash the grime and slime away.  Then I started a new book.  Wild by Cheryl Strayed.  In the first chapter, she writes about losing her mother.  I don't know if it was the emotional trauma from taking care of my damaged dogs, or the fact that this is the time of year my mom started dying, or just the book, but I cried harder and longer than I have since before Mother died.  I wish I could say it was cathartic, but the truth is that I'm having a difficult day.  I'm feeling really down.  Missing my mom so much.
I guess it's normal for something like the dog debacle to trigger these feelings.  Because for a moment, I thought I'd lost someone I loved.  I do love my dogs.  Especially my sweet little Lucy.  I'm not so crazy about Sally right now, but I suppose it's natural for a mother to feel the most love for her child who's most in need of it.  Which is why I know that I was always Mother's favorite.

Tuesday, September 3, 2013

The Grouch

It's a long story, and unfortunately, I don't have time to recount it now, but suffice it to say, The Daddler was in rare form last week on our outing to Sam's Club.  Let's just say that my karma's growing leaps and bounds.
More later.

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Don't fuck with me

I'm in a mood.  Mad at pretty much everyone.
  • Kiddo
  • Kiddo's dad
  • Pushy realtor
  • The Daddler
  • My biz partner
  • My sick boyfriend (sick as in suffering from flu-like symptoms, not fetishism)
  • The Daddler
  • Sally the Terrible
  • Lucy the Prolific Pooper
  • Lowe's, Comcast, Office Depot, et al
  • Slow drivers, old drivers, most drivers
  • Obnoxious, sexist, piggish pony-tailed self-proclaimed siding specialists
  • Pushy realtors
  • The Daddler
  • The ferocious chihuaha next door (actually, I'm in love with him)
  • The pitiful excuse for police
  • Anyone who abuses animals or children or women
  • Cheaters
  • Liars
  • People who buy $11 worth of bing cherries ahead of me in the grocery store checkout and complain about the price as they present their SNAP (food stamp) card. Why the fuck are they buying $11 worth of cherries on the government's dime - rice, beans, velveeta - I can see, but fresh cherries?  Is there some cherry compound used to make some black market drug?  Wait.  I think Dr. Oz listed cherries as a superfood the other day.  So I'm sure the demand exceeds the supply and the price for bings has sky-rocketed.  That makes me think of the fortune I lost on Beanie Babies.  America's 1990's version of tulip mania of 1637.  Think Gordon Gekko and Wall Street.  Can't remember if it was the first or second movie.
Need a nap.  Bye.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

My New Muse

I am head over heals in love with The Bloggess.  AKA Jenny Lawson.  You've got to check her out.  I added her blog's link to my list of favorites, for your added convenience.

A good friend introduced me to her when he gave me her book:  Let's Pretend This Never Happened

Reading it made me feel much more normal.  Really, though, it just made me embrace my weirdness - she makes it seem downright glamorous to be shrouded in strangeness. 

Have you read David Sedaris?  He's absolutely hilarious, too.  I'm so hooked.  Then there's Augusten Burroughs - he's kind of a darker version of Sedaris.

When I wright a book of my memoirs, I'm going to call it I Couldn't Make this Shit Up.  Because I couldn't.

I've had several blog-worthy experiences lately, but I just haven't had time to chronicle them.  Let's see... There's Sally's disastrous diarrhea episode.  My latest David and Goliath thing (Carol v. Lowe's, this time.)  Another mysterious crime case that called forth my inner Nancy Drew.  These are just a few that come to mind.  I'm sure there are more.

No time to write now.  I'm on a deadline with the rental house.  Tenants are signing the lease tomorrow.  I have to finish it up, plus ten million other things to get the house ready.  Fortunately, they're all relatively small things, but I need to get them done before they start moving in later this week.  And then there are all the things I've put off in my frantic rush to wrap up the rental.

Oh, I just realized I'm way late on The Daddler's dinner.

So, that's all for now.  Later...

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

The Good News and the Bad News

Bad news first.  Sally can now jump over the fence which divides the back yard in two.  The good news is that she has gotten too big to squeeze through the gate from the front section to the carport (and freedom.)  More good news is that she doesn't run away, unless she's following Lucy.  Which is especially good since Lucy can't jump out because she has short Dachsund legs.  That doesn't slow her down when she goes on the lam, though.  The bad news is that, in spite of her short legs, she's a regular canine FloJo.  And she's very clever.  She can open any gate or door latch, unless I've stretched a bungee cord tighter than Mary Tyler Moore's face to keep it in place. 

And she has big, paddle-like paws which she uses to dig under the fence.  I should've never let her watch The Great Escape with me.  Or one of those movies about escaping from Alcatrez.  The Rock, maybe?

Hey.  Lucy hates water, so maybe I should dig a moat around the house.  It would serve a dual purpose.  It would contain her and it would keep my yard from turning into a mud pit when it rains.  That wouldn't help the Sally sitch, though, because she likes water - I guess that's the retriever in her.  When I fill the kiddie pool, she tries to swim in it. 

Maybe an electric fence is the solution.  Now that I think about it, though, there's another, equally challenging problem.  Sally eats anything she finds (if it's not a carrot or a pickle.)  Tell me - why would someone eat a dead vole or bluejay, and not a carrot?  I won't even mention dog poop, vomit, or the litter box.  Which reminds me of a sickening story.  One night, I conducted a bread and butter pickle blind taste test with my friend girl, Jolynna.  Followed by a blind taste test of three kinds of Baskin Robbins ice-cream.  For some strange reason, I threw my guts up.  (No, I wasn't preggers.)  I slept in JoJo's guest room, and I woke up to the sound of her Greyhound rescue - CatDog (I know) lapping up, ummm, yea.  The contents of the waste can stationed next to my bed.

That reminds me.  In case you haven't heard.  The definition of a good friend is someone who holds your hair back when you throw up.  Jolynna is a good friend.  She even got a cold cloth for my forehead.

Damn.  I'm digressing.

It's been a crazy day.  Lots going on with my burgeoning real-estate empire.  Wheelin' and dealin' and scavenging wood from curbs.  I had no idea how expensive wood has gotten.  I hit the jackpot, though.  I found a $300 exterior door today, complete with really great hardware.  The right width for what I need.

Gotta run.  Duty calls...

Monday, July 29, 2013

Why me?

I just can't understand why I keep finding myself in the middle of a crime scene.  As if the poor pit bull nightmare weren't enough, I stumbled upon an even more sinister situation this past weekend.

Once again, no one gave a flying fuck.  I wish I didn't.

I stumbled into this weird thing Saturday.  I made three phone calls to organizations I had previously thought highly of, and I expected them to care.  But as usual, I was wrong.   Because who, in her right mind, would worry about a freshly dug shallow grave in her back yard?  And why in the hell would anyone look askance at a pair of little girl's lavender sweat pants turned inside out and torn at the crotch?  With a stuffed rabbit, wearing a purple crown, smashed into the mud, eight feet away.  And in between, a 2x4 and a splintered board.  And a water bottle.   All within a back yard, completely enclosed by 6' wooden fences.

I expressed my concerns to my business partner, who just happens to have a 50% interest in the scene of the crime (our rental property.)  He was pretty sure that the water bottle had blown over the six-foot fence in a gust of wind.  And that the torn garment and abandoned toy were also the result of an act of god.  Never mind that he'd (that very day) walked past a car in the Kroger parking lot with two or three kids strapped into a car seat in 90+ degree weather, with no adult in sight.  He thought the car was running with the A/C going, and that the driver was just gone for a flash.  Fuck that.  Fuck him.  Fuck every single fat-ass who doesn't give a fuck about the pain and misery of an innocent, helpless child or animal.  Fuck them.  I hate them.  Intensely.

I want to forget about this, but I can't.  So for now, I'll just list the organizations I'm frustrated with. 

To start, I will never give one red cent to:  The Humane Society.  Mid-South Spay and Neuter.  The Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

I hate the idiotic, fat ass, apathetic excuse for a police department who I pay (with my hard-earned tax dollars) to serve and protect my community.

I have no confidence in our fucking excuse for law enforcement.  I guess they're too busy arresting people operating stills and possessing small amounts of marijuana.  Parking illegally.  Failing to decelerate from 60 to 40 mph on the downhill slide from the interstate called Sam Cooper to the avenue called Sam Cooper.

Fuck all those fucking bureaucrats.  I'm done.

Friday, July 19, 2013

I'm in love.

I never thought I could love this way again.  Until today.
I was working at the rental house this morning.  I heard a dog barking.  I assumed the dogs next door.  But it seemed closer than that.

When I looked out the back door, I was surprised to see a dog running around in the yard.  Which was completely, hermetically fenced and sealed.  What made it weirder is that this dog looked exactly like a Lucy/Sally combo.

But as cute as she was, I tried to avoid getting attached.  The fact that she was covered in cockle-burrs, which looked like a colony of parasitic trilobites, kept my emotions in check.

The trilobites turned out to be cockle-burrs.  Because this sweet dog had been lost in the wild for seven months.  She had a tattoo and a chip, and a Nancy Drew of a foster mom (that would be me.)  I solved the mystery with a visit to the vet. 

So she's set to reunite with her owner in the morning.  I have half a mind to snatch her, though.  Because I'm so in love.  The Daddler was crazy about her, too.  I hate to say it, but I wish I could trade Sally in for Sassy (that's what that negligent bitch-excuse for a mistress named her.)  Sassy's a year old, and about Lucy's size, and the same sweet temperament.  And, as The D observed, she has the same light brown eyes as Mother had.  Like Lucy's. 

I'm gonna go to bed.  Because I need to get up early, so I can go to the vet's office, and say my farewell to this sweet, sweet girl.  With any luck, her lazy excuse for a mistress will forget about coming to pick her up, or will have a family emergency which prevents her from showing up, and I'll swoop in and gather this adorable baby to my bosom.

I should sleep.  Because this is sounding kinda crazy.  Still.  She is soooo, soooo cute.  And sweet.

Happy 82nd Birthday!

Big day at our house today!  Being the sweet daughter that I am, I sang Happy Birthday to The Daddler when he got up.  Then I fixed pancakes for him - it's been a while since he's had his usual muffin for breakfast.

His brother and sister-in-law are taking him to lunch - I know he's excited about that. 

July is a big birthday around here.  Kiddo's birthday was a couple days ago, and I'm having one in less than two weeks (yes, that's a hint!)

Not that my friends need reminding.  Last year I was really surprised by how many gifts and cards and calls I received.  Especially because I never remember anyone's birthday.  Except Kiddo's and The D's, and of course, mine.  But I do give my besties things at random times throughout the year.  When I see something that makes me think of someone I love, I buy it.  And I get so excited about giving it to them that I just can't wait until a real occasion.  Besides, isn't it much more fun to get a gift out of the blue than all at the same time on Christmas or your birthday?   Also, there's the scary possibility that one or the other of us would drop dead before the usual gift-giving occasion. 

That reminds me.  I need to redo my will.  Because if I don't spend all my money before I die, or lose it in the stock market or real estate investments, I like the idea of spreading my wealth around to the people I love.  More than just Kiddo.  Of course, he'll get some, but since he's frequently rude to me and he's gonna make a boat-load (it's boat load, not butt load, by the way) of money when he graduates next year and becomes a Gordon Gekko.  Since he's doing an internship in NYC  at Morgan Stanley, more than likely, he'll go to work for them next June.  And since he's making four times what I made when I graduated almost 30 years ago (as a college junior intern, no less), I don't expect he'll need much of my paltry fortune.  Plus, he's the only kid, and I'm sure his dad will give him everything.  Unless he never got around to changing the beneficiary on his life insurance, which is a real possibility, knowing him.

The best reason, though, for giving away my money post-humously, is that people will be extra nice to me.  And if they're not, I'll change my will accordingly.  Would it be mean if I left them a penny?  That reminds me of a story.  When I paid off my Regions home equity loan a long time ago, the following month I received a bill for $ 0.01.  That's right.  One cent.  I ignored it, and I kept getting invoices every month for over a year.  Finally, I decided to pay off my sizeable debt to them.  So I taped not one, but two pennies to the remittance advice and mailed it.  Just as I expected, the next month I received a statement which showed a credit balance of one cent.  That went on for another year.  I suppose they finally realized that they'd spent lots more than one cent on postage, printing, and other administrative costs for those bills.  If I hadn't had such a bad experience when they bought my loan from NBC, I wouldn't have been so devious.  It felt good though.

Well, I'm gonna close now.  It's time to wrangle with Comcast.  They finally came through with a nice big credit for cheating me for the last two years.  But I'm not sure it's right, so I'm going to continue the massive spreadsheet I started.  When I get it all straight, I'll prepare a bill for my time.  I have a little leverage with them, in the form of complaints to the SEC and FCC, so I'll try to strong-arm them without crossing the line into extortion.

All for now...

Friday, July 12, 2013


The second photo (lumpy lipo candidate) in yesterday's post was NOT me.  For that matter, neither was the first (penguin.)  Both pictures, though, reflect how I felt.


Thursday, July 11, 2013


This pretty much sums it up.   A/C works.  Life is good.  My brain is no longer about to implode, and I've gone a whole 36 hours without a rant.  Unbelievable.    
Unfortunately (for you - my voyeuristic loyal readers,) my angst fuels my blogs.  So this will be short and sweet.
I have so much more to tell, but for now, I have other pleasant pursuits.  In case you care, what's trending in my cranium is as follows:  bald nudism as the cure for global warming; how foxes must be a dog/cat hybrid; dogs who prefer dead voles, dog vomit and cat poop to premium, organic, expensive puppy chow; whether it's incestuous to have a romantic relationship with someone who must be a twin separated at birth or a reincarnation of one's self (which is why I find him irresistable.)   Whether I should be worried about The Daddler because he forgot how to change the TV volume on the cable remote control - those damn TIAs - such a nuisance. 
Or if I should spend the proceeds from my pending refi on "Tickle Lipo" to suck out the huge flap of fat I've been left with after having three "bikini" cuts to remove large masses from my abdomen (an 8lb 13oz baby, a grapefruit-sized ball of mucous, and a useless uterus.)  Bikini cut, huh?  As in, you'll never wear a bikini again.  Why don't they call it a natural chastity belt?
Wow.  And I said I wouldn't rant.
On that note, I'm gonna go. 

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

A Living Hell

I'm in hell.  It must be bad karma.  All these angry blog posts I've written are coming back like a blasted (pardon the pun) boomerang.  Blast furnace - get it?

Now that I think about it, it's so apropos that my upstairs is nice and cool - so heavenly, and downstairs is unbearably, hellishly hot. 

In case you haven't been keeping up, my A/C has been out since Friday, or maybe Thursday.  When the weather was unseasonably cool.  Or not hot.  But every day, it's gotten hotter and more humid.  And the holy grail of air conditioner parts is still eluding my crusaders.  Where is Indiana Jones when I need him?  That reminds me of the Shia LeBouf lookalike I made out with on an airplane a few years ago.  Turned out he was married - there's a whole embarrassing story involving email and a snoopy wife.  But that's for another time.

As I recall from my 11th grade physics class, heat and pressure are directly proportional.  And I have too much of each.  To put this in layman's terms, I'm living in a pressure cooker.  About to blow a gasket.  Throw a rod.  Trigger a solar flare, and consequently, global warming and the end of the world as we know it.  Spontaneously combust.

As if the whole ComCrap debacle and the shallow grave in my back yard weren't enough, yesterday I encountered another windmill.  Of course, I tilted at it.  Here goes:

Against my better judgment, I stopped by Office Depot.  I've had shitty experiences therein the past, but it was on my way home and I knew exactly what I wanted (which they didn't happen to have,) but I found a suitable replacement.  In fact, I was pleasantly surprised that two or three employees asked me if I needed help, and I didn't have to wait in line to check out.  It didn't hurt that I was the only customer in the store.

I bought my stuff.  So far so good.  Until I almost walked through the naked glass wall directly in front of the cash register.  Fortunately, it was kinda dirty so I realized that I needed to turn 90 degrees to the left to exit the store.  Once before, a long time ago, I walked into a glass wall.  I was with The Daddler.  My forehead ricocheted off the glass.  I stood there, stunned and disoriented.  Instead of asking me if I was ok, The D said, and I quote, "It sounded like a cannon went off in here,"  while shaking his head the same way he did when I backed into the bay window and crunched the fender of my car.  Or pulled into the carport and hit the post and sent it flying.  Fortunately, it wasn't load-bearing and neither he nor Mother were crushed by the the roof or hit by schrapnel.  In retrospect, though, the thought of The D being impaled by a cedar post isn't altogether unpleasant.

Back to my near miss.  Being the bleeding heart, good citizen I am, I decided to go back in the store and tell someone that they might want to put something in front of the glass so that other people wouldn't walk into it like I nearly did.  As an aside, I was actually elected "Good Citizen" my senior year of high school.  It was kinda like being awarded the Miss Congeniality sash at the Miss America pageant.  Or being described by a match-making friend to prospective boyfriends as having a good personality.  Still, I got a full page picture in the yearbook, on the arm of the biggest, smokiest druggie guy on campus.  And to dilute the honor that much more, for each category, there were four winners, not two.  An African-American boy and girl, and a Caucasian boy and girl.  And since I was in the minority in my school, graduated third in my class, and was on the yearbook staff (a decided advantage in these contests) it was pretty lame.  I figure by the time Mr. & Miss Whitehavens, Smartest, Most Likely to Succeed, Most Popular and Best Dressed (WTF is up with those stupid categories? - why not have Thinnest Girl and Most Cut Boy, Best Nose/Boob Job, Sluttiest, Heaviest Makeup, Longest Rap Sheet, Worst Acne & Greasiest Hair - I coulda been a contender for that one, Fattest Ass -my biology teacher once told me that I had a "bottom" that boys like to look at - I'm cringing to this day, and last but not least, Most Likely to Wind Up on Death Row and/or on the Sexual Offenders Registry.  Actually, at our 30th reunion, I was advised not to FaceBook friend a guy who was a known pedaphile.  Hmmm.  Is a pedophile a foot lover?  I wish I'd taken latin.)

Damn, is this one incoherent rant or what?

Back to the Office Depot thing.  I'm embarrassed to admit that I spent way too much time trying to get some corporate drone to care.  But I finally found success.  With the help of an attorney friend who revealed the secret of a great (legitimate) lawyer directory website - Martindale.com.   I emailed the General Counsel of the company, and she emailed back.  I was incredulous.  She delegated me to three underlings who actually seemed to be more qualified than the usual script-reading, automaton I regularly encounter.

They all "reached out" to me (mark that square on your Buzzword Bingo card) and did a convincing job of caring about my concerns.  So now I can forget about it.

And focus on harrassing American Standard - the manufacturer of my lemon of an air conditioner.  And ComCrap.  And United-Fucking-Health.  And Verizon. Ad nauseum...

Stay tuned.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Rules to Live By

Don't ever buy cheap garbage bags.  I spent 20 maddening minutes trying to open one.  Without success.

I'm about to go in the back yard and set the whole box on fire.  And then I'll call the cops and report a hate crime.  Because I hate cheap shit.  And I hate cops (at least fat-ass apathetic ones like the loser who refused to investigate the shallow grave in my back yard.)

Damn.  I'm sounding like a lunatic.  I'll continue to blame it on the heat.  The rare and elusive part to my state of the art HVAC system won't be here until tomorrow, and my brain is swelling.  I'm feeling vengeful.  On so many levels.

Thank God for blogging.

Sunday, July 7, 2013


Wow.  I'm full of it tonight.  I think the heat is getting to me.  While The Daddler was at church, I let the dogs in and regaled them with two of my favorite songs from Oliver!  Namely, I'd Do Anything, and Food, Glorious Food.  They seemed subdued by my performance.

I was channeling Julie Andrews.  If she'd been in Oliver!  One can only imagine.

What a great movie!  So formative for me.   I had the biggest Tiger Beat-fueled crush on Jack Wild.  Who, by the way, was nominated for an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor.  On a sad note, I recently googled him, and discovered that he'd drunk and smoked himself to death.  What a buzz-kill.  How could that adorable man-boy die?  If only I'd known before it was too late.  I could've swept in to be his Florence Nightingale/Mother Teresa/Nancy-Cougar.  Swing low, sweet chariot.  I know.  That makes no sense at all.  I blame it on the heat.  I just walked through the den and I felt like I was an extra in Apocolypse Now.  Or Beyond the Thunderdome.  Or one of those crazy movies whose trailers trigger terrible nightmares.

Even though my dreamboat was cheated, the movie won the Best Picture Oscar (and best soundtrack and director) for 1968.  Now that I think about it, I was just seven years old.  Wait.  Make that six.  Because I didn't turn seven until July of 1968.  That's a little crazy to think about.  There's something wrong about a six year old girl mooning over a ficticious, orphaned member of a major crime-ring, whom she's never met.

Now.  Back to the point of this post.  Indulgence.  After my Obie-worthy performance, I was flushed with feelings of fondness.  Which I expressed by spoiling my two spoiled adorable baby girl dogs who I love more than life itself.  I spread peanut butter (Choosy Mothers Choose Jif, which has never been recalled, like Peter Pan - the cheap imitation) on a plastic plate and sprinkled it with generic Cheerios. 

I selflessly gave the treats to The Daddler to give to the girls (he loves to feed animals, and I'm trying to keep him too busy to start a colony of feral cats again.)  He loved it.  They loved it.  And then I fed him.  With leftover Wendy's chili, sliced cucumbers, and a parfait of walnut brownies with banana split ice cream, topped with a big squirt of Redi-Whip and a cherry on top.  He actually said, "It tastes good." before he even tasted it.  Redi-Whip is worth its weight in gold.  It makes everything look tastier.

All this to say, I'm feeling the love.  For Jack Wild.  My little bitches.  The Daddler.  My upstairs HVAC.  And for one other being, who shall remain unnamed.  For now, let's just call him John.

Still No A/C

It turns out there's a problem with some elusive part to my HVAC system and it can't be procured until Monday.  I find it hard to believe there's no way to get parts during the weekend.  Oh, well.

The guys were nice.  After Marcus had been here 2+ hours, with no solution, I figured it might take a while.  I was pleased when his boss showed up, complete with another helper.  Boss was very apologetic (sincere apologies go a long way with me - there are way too few of those around.)  After he broke the news to me, he appeared with two window units.  After I made the big decision of where to put them, they popped them in, and even sealed around the edges so bugs wouldn't get in.  Again, that went a long way with me.  On the other hand, the window A/Cs are pretty anemic.  I might suggest that they upgrade to some newer ones (and maybe a couple more.)  They're pretty cheap.  I suppose that would be looking a gift horse in the mouth, though.

Little sis brought two box fans.  Old-fashioned box fans are far superior to those oscillating tower fans.  Way cheaper, too.  In fact, I tried to use one from my parents' house, but it was pathetic.  It's out on the curb.

It's still 80 degrees in the living room, but since I have my own A/C in my bedroom upstairs, it's not a big problem.  The D was just fine this morning.  And I have recovered from my extremely foul mood, which I'll blame on the heat and frustration of having to deal with a state of the art (expensive) HVAC system which broke less than a year after I bought it.

Enough bitching.  I'm gonna head down the hall to the wind tunnel to watch CBS Sunday Morning with The Daddler.  And put some ice in my coffee.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Have I mentioned...

...that I hate Comcrap?  Because I do.  Intensely. 

They have ruined my life.

I am held hostage, because there would be hell to pay if The Daddler had to learn a new remote control. 

I'm having violent thoughts.  Of commiting unthinkable crimes. 

What stops me from acting on these crazy impulses is the thought of being imprisoned.  So not to worry, I'd never break the law or disturb the peace.

On that thought, I need to go.  To sew a poison pill pocket onto everything I wear.  And buy some castor beans...

If it's not one thing...

...it's another.  The air conditioner's out.  It's not the end of the world, though, because:
- The Daddler likes it hot (he insisted it was working just fine)
- I have my own unit with its own thermostat upstairs - 'nuf said
- I have my very own kiddie pool in the back yard
- The outside temp is under 112 degrees
- The A/C guy will be here within the hour

So, I have plenty of cool oases to escape to. 

The D isn't bitching.  Yet.  Of course, he instructed me to just turn down the thermostat.  God.  Does he really think I'm such an idiot? 

And I'm certain I won't have to pay one red cent to the HVAC guy, since I spent mega-bucks on a brand new system less than a year ago.

I'll close now, and head outside to fill my pool.  I'll have to keep Sally out of it so it won't be polluted with mud and pee before I get in.   Later...

Monday, July 1, 2013

In Memoriam

I'm not sure I should post this.  It's just that I can't get it out of my mind.  The thing about one picture being worth a thousand words - I think there's truth in that.  Plus, he's so beautiful.  Peaceful and serene.  I want everyone to feel the same outrage I've felt.

I'm still searching for answers.  And I'm determined to find a way to be sure that no one else has to deal with a fat-ass, lazy, apathetic excuse for a cop who'd rather harrass an angel of mercy like me, than bother with an ominous, freshly-dug, shallow grave, which could've contained anything.  Including a dead baby, a dwarf, a dismembered witness for the prosecution, an innocent bystander...

I'm not done with this.  Justice will prevail.  For now, though, I'll close.  Plan my strategy.  Binge-watch the Death Wish movies.  Classics...

Saturday, June 29, 2013

More Craziness, Part II

Ok, here's the next installment of Friday's macabre debacle:

Let's see.  I left off where the fat-ass fuzzy pig cop waddled off instead of investigating the ominous, freshly-dug, shallow grave behind my house.  That reminds me.  Remember when the cool people called them "the fuzz," or "pigs?"  Maybe I should coin a term to put a new twist on an old expression.  How about "hairy hogs?"  "Pudgy/portly police?"  "Obese officers?"  "Corpulent cops?"   I always adore alliteration, so I like these.  Especially, the last one.  We could call them CC-PoPo.  Or just C-Po.  Hey - that's the ticket!  Pardon the pun.

Now.  Back to the saga.  After C-Po assured himself that I wasn't a fugitive, and then used me like his own personal Google to get the phone number for the church's pastor, he left.  Apparently satisfied that all was peachy.  Which probably made him head straight for Chik-Fil-A to get one of those peach milkshakes.  You can't blame him.  They're here for a limited time only.  Which reminds me about my recent disaster with an exploding peach milkshake in my brand new car.  But that's another post.

I was furious about the way C-Po handled (or didn't handle) the obvious crime.  I'd asked him for his name and badge number, as well as his supervisor's number.  He begrudgingly gave it to me, after telling me that his lieutenant was the one who told him he shouldn't waste his precious time.  Because, obviously, if four suspicious men told an 81 year old man they were burying their beloved pet, they were buring their beloved pet.  Never mind that the elderly, speech-impaired man didn't actually see said dog.  It was delusional to think that they might have murded an actual person.  And golly, it would take a back-hoe to dig up the loose pile of dirt that covered the alledged victim.  Besides, I hadn't gotten the license plate of the perp's truck, so shit, what right did I have to want to be sure my backyard wasn't a makeshift mortuarium for murder victims?  C-Po had bigger fish to fry.  Which reminded him that he was late meeting his brothers-in-arms at Captain D's.  After all, he needed to take advantage of the limited time, summer celebration, $4.99 Full Meal Deal.  Who could blame him for wanting to take advantage of "The Sampler?"  It has fried fish, fried chicken tenders, and fried shrimp, and includes slaw, hush puppies and a side of mashed potatoes or french fries, and an ice cold coke.  After all, he had to keep his strength up after hiking a tenth of a mile through the rough terrain of a church field in 89 degree temperature.

It was all I could do not to yell, "Fuck you, mother fucker!  I hope you get dispatched to a U-Haul full of hungry, angry dogs who've just been transported all the way from California by a couple evil bitches who operate a sham animal rescue organization (this really happened here not too long ago.)  And that after you open the back of the truck, you trip and fall when you try to run from the vicious curs, and they cover you like a swarm of killer bees, with a few fire ants mixed in.  And that all that's left of your big, fat ass is a scrawny skeleton.  Which the dogs are divvying up to gnaw on before they dig a shallow hole to bury your pathetic bones in.  So fitting.

But being the reasonable, sane person I am, I didn't do that.  Instead, I grabbed my shovel, which was handy since I'd just planted my lilac bush with it.  I indignantly, intrepidly marched across the field to the gruesome grave.  And started digging.  At first, nothing but dirt.  And then, just like something out of a movie, I hit something.  And like the movie, I threw the shovel aside and used my hands to gently push the dirt aside.  After all, I couldn't be sure there wasn't a baby who was hanging on to life by a thread.  Like that poor infant in Japan who'd been flushed down the toilet, but was safe and sound after being rescued by the hard-working, caring Kobans.

For some reason, I wasn't afraid of what I'd find.  Which turned out to be a blue tarp, which enclosed an old bedsheet, which encased a dog.  A pit-bull.  He looked so peaceful.  His eyes were closed, and he wasn't bloody or maimed.  Or decayed.  He hadn't been dead long.  Instinctively, and without a shred of revulsion, I stroked his poor lifeless head.  He was still warm.  He looked like he was just sleeping.  I sat down next to him, and spoke kind, comforting words.  My heart was breaking, and tears were spilling from my eyes.

Around that time, the church's pastor appeared.  Complete with suit and tie.  He was very kind, and listened as I told him of the horror which had just happened.  He asked me if I was all right, and encouraged me to go home and calm down.  So I took his advice.  I covered the sweet dog back up and walked home. 

I spent at least two or three hours on the phone, trying to get someone to care about this poor dog.  Turns out, no one does.  No one except my friends.  Finally, I passed out, exhausted, only to toss and turn all night.  Because I couldn't get the poor, sweet dog out of my mind.  And the fact that he was lying in the dark, and could be a midnight snack for a racoon or possom, and worms and maggots.  Or the frustration of not being able to find anyone in authority to care.

After my sleepless night, I went back to pursuing help.  I started back with the Humane Society's animal cruelty investigation division.  Their hours are 10 - 3.  Prime time for pit bull fights.  Went to voice mail.  Left a message.  Never heard back.  I called the Mayor's Action Center.  Same thing.  Then my US Representative.  At least there, I spoke to a real person.  Who told me the animal rights specialist was in a staff meeting, but that she'd call me back soon.  Which she never did. 

At that point, I decided I'd go check on things.  We'd had a bad storm early in the morning, so there was a pile of mud in place of the dirt.  I saw the tarp and the sheet, but no dog.  Turned out, the pastor had instructed the church secretary to call the city's animal pickup division.  The roadkill clean-up people.  Who'd already come and disposed of him.

Well, I think I've shared enough.  I took pictures of the dog, but I'm not sure I should share them yet.  They're not gruesome, though.  He looks peaceful.  I'll think on it. 

I'm not sure if I should do anything more, but I'm just haunted by it.  I can't make sense of it, and I'm not sure I can rest until I find closure.

For now, though, there's nothing I can do.  Because it's not between 1:00 and 3:00 Monday through Friday.  And next week is a holiday week.  So it would be unreasonable for me to expect anyone in authority to deal with such unpleasantness so close to the celebration of our great country's independence.

So I'll close. 

Friday, June 28, 2013

More Craziness

Why does the weirdest stuff happen to me?  I feel like I'm having a nightmare and I can't wake up.  Because this is too surreal to have actually happened.  Here goes...

Late yesterday afternoon, I was working in my yard.  Oddly enough, digging holes to plant some things I've had way too long.  Odd because the events that followed involved shovels.  Somehow, the knockout rose bush I planted got broken off at the base, so I was replacing it with a lilac I got for a song at Lowe's.  There's just a big field between my house and the church next door.  There's not much activity at the church, aside from Sundays and Wednesday nights.  Since the parking lot is usually empty, I tend to notice when there are cars there.  Sometimes, there'll be two police cars parked side by side with passengers' sides together.  I suppose so the cops can chew the fat and share doughnuts  discuss ideas for how to better protect and serve the citizens of our fair city.  Now and then, there'll be an SUV parked so the owner can let his dog run in the field.  Or a couple high-school kids two practicing Lacrosse against the outside wall of the gym.  All good.

Yesterday, though, I noticed a black pickup truck pull into the parking lot and head toward the gym.  No big deal.  Until they pulled onto the grass and parked behind the gym.  I thought it was odd, but went on about my business.  I wasn't too worried.  Until I looked up to see two young men (sans shirts) carrying a shovel to the back corner of the field - directly behind my backyard.  Strange.

So I decided to investigate.  By sending The Daddler out to investigate.  It might sound wrong that I sent my 81 year old father into the corner of a field to interrogate two shirtless men with shovels. But I wouldn't have thought to ask him if he hadn't spent his whole career as an MP in the Air Force, and then in civil service as a detective.  I thought he'd jump at the chance to do a little investigation, for old times' sake.  I told him he could just nonchalantly walk back there with Sally, say a friendly hello, and report back to me. 

He just scowled and told me to do it myself.  Normally, I would've, but something didn't feel right, and I figured I needed to avoid getting killed.  If that happened, who would take care of The D?  See, it was really quite selfless of me to send him into harm's way.  So I decided to just go back to my gardening, and hope that's what those nice young men were doing, too.  I'm sure they were planning to start a community garden (those are trendy now,) and they had the shovels to take soil samples so they'd know how to amend the soil before they started planting.

I got absorbed in what I was doing, and forgot about the strange goings-on.  Then, lo and behold, here comes The Daddler back from the field.  I hadn't even noticed that he'd gone.  He calmly reported to me that the guys were there to bury a dog.  I asked him if he'd seen the dog.  No.  I continued to give him the third degree, but all I got out of him was the dead dog theory.  In the meantime, two other shirtless guys showed up.  I suppose they'd parked on the other side of the church, because they walked into the field from behind the gym.  So I didn't see their car.  Finally, they all left.

So I cajoled The Man of the House into showing me where the alleged dog was allegedly buried.  He calmy walked me to the back of the gym, and calmly pointed at the freshly dug shallow grave.  Even though I figured the suspects' shovel was for something, I couldn't believe my eyes.

So I did what any sane person would do.  I called the non-emergency police number.  After a lengthy wait, some schmo finally came on the line.  Told me to call my precinct.  I asked him what the number was, and he seemed surprised that I didn't know.  Do I need to say I was surprised he didn't know?  I had given him my address, after all.  So I asked him for the number of the East Precinct.  The one on Mt. Moriah.  That wasn't the right one.  They said to call Appling Road.  Actually, we're in the Tillman precinct.  They didn't know that.  I just happened to remember from the neighborhood watch meeting.

So, finally, a cop shows up.  A big fat-ass.  He left his engine running - I'm sure so the car would stay cool.  I got the impression that 1) he didn't plan to stay long, and 2) he didn't care about the earth and toxic emissions or our city's dire financial straits, and 3) that he was a lazy fat-ass and was mad that he had to walk all the way across the field. 

When we showed him the ominous pile of dirt, he started tromping around it.  I told him I thought we should stay away from the crime scene so we didn't taint the evidence before the CSI got there.  No response.  I said, "You are going to call the crime scene investigators, aren't you?"  No answer.  He was thinking.  About the fact that he was missing out on the coffee klatch.

When it became clear he wasn't going to do shit about things, I got upset.  At that point, he waddled back to his squad car with the frosty windows.  Asked me for ID.  What?  That's right.  ID.  I should've told him that he was in my driveway and had my name and address and phone number.  And to fuck himself.  But I didn't.  I got my driver's license and gave it to him.  He studied it carefully, and finally concluded that I was who I said I was.  He called HQ to be sure I didn't have any outstanding warrants.  He was disappointed that I wasn't a squatter who called myself a soveriegn citizen - that's the high profile crime these days.  I'm sure he'd rather investigate a fifty-something year old woman with her elderly father in a nice safe neighborhood in east Memphis, than traipse around trying to find four, large, shirtless men with shovels, who were no doubt operating a pit-bull fighting ring.  I think he had a little cynophobia, judging from the fear in his eyes when he saw Sally, our six month old, retriever mix puppy.  So who can blame him for turning a blind eye?

Oh, forgot to mention that when I realized he was going to do abso-fuckin-lutely nothing about the grave, I asked him how he could be sure it wasn't a baby.  I think the hole was too big for an adult person, unless they'd been dismembered.  Or they could've been a little person (never say midget - they hate that.)

There's lots more to the story, but I don't have time to finish now.  Check back later and I'll tell you how I took matters (and my shovel) into my own hands and found the poor victim of this gruesome crime.  Who, by the way, is still rotting where I found him, thanks to the apathy, laziness and ineptness of that fat-ass excuse for a policeman.


Wednesday, June 26, 2013

The Comcrap Saga Continues

I finally have their attention.  Yesterday, I got a call from someone named Angie in the corporate escalation team.  She actually has a brain and a heart.  Unlike most of the other Scarecrows and Tin Men I've been dealing with. 

She and her supervisor are working on my account, and she seemed sincere about that.  Said it looks really strange and is clearly wrong, and that they're going back to inception.  I'm still skeptical, but she gave me her direct dial number.  I used it this morning and it actually worked.  Without a trace of the fucking phone tree.  I called to tell her that my incoming email hasn't worked in three days.  The outgoing, since June 13th.  Yesterday when I mentioned that problem, she told me she'd have a tech guy (who is "Great!), give me a call today.  I left a voice mail since she works from 11 to 7.  Weird thing.  When I was winding up my lengthy message, I blurted out, "Love ya," same as I say to my best friends.  Caught myself, too late, and so tried to back-pedal, which resulted in a very weird message, with lots of cringing.

"Oops, I didn't mean that...  Thought I was talking to one of my friends...  Not that you couldn't be my friend...  I don't love you...  But I do like you..  Or at least I will if you can fix my problem.  Still, you seem like a nice person...  Over time, I may grow to love you, but I don't want to rush things." (Ok, I made that last thing up, but most of the rest is true.)...  I said I wasn't good and awake yet, that my message was weird, that she should ignore it, and have a great day...  Cringe, cringe, cringe.

I guess it's understandable, though, since she's thrown me a lifeline.  That, or I'm getting Stockholm Syndrom.  The same thing, really.

Whatever it is, I'm actually feeling hopeful.  And I'm planning to get hardwood floors to replace my urine stained, alizarin crimson acrylic paint stained, shredded in the corners carpet.  Because I'm certain I'm gonna get a big fat check to compensate me for my time and severe emotional pain and suffering.  And because I'm going to extort them with the SEC and FCC complaints.  Don't worry, though.  I'll do it in a subtle way.  I know they have a huge in-house counsel department, but what judge would rule against me?    In fact, I could slap them with a countersuit, and with any luck, the judge would hate them, too.  Just like the SEC attorney I talked to.  Besides, I'm sure they have plenty to keep their lawyers busy, including the class action lawsuits I read about.

Stay tuned for the next episode...

Monday, June 24, 2013

Confession is good for the soul...

...so here goes: 

Forgive me, people.  It's been six days since my last confessional blog post.  Lots has happened since Tuesday.  I've committed some venial sins.  I've had violent, murderous thoughts toward several parties.  I'm hoping that the fact that they deserve to die a slow, torturous death will ameliorate the seriousness of my transgressions - I'd hate to have comitted mortal sins.  In case you don't already know, the difference between venial and mortal sins is as follows (per Wikipedia):

A venial sin does not concern a "grave matter," is not comitted with full knowledge, or is not comitted with both deliberate and complete consent. 

Therefore, if it doesn't fit into all three categories, it's not venial.  It's mortal.  Which ain't good.  I think it involves a lake of fire, weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth, and other unpleasantness.  Apparently, my good karma doesn't amount to a hill of beans since I've continued to be afflicted by so many unbearable tribulations.  The karma credits are a result of the fact that I pick up rusty nails in the street on my runs - as many as 12 after it rains - and take them home to dispose of safely?  I hope the fact that I haven't gotten a flat tire lately is not the only reward I'll get for that selfless act.

About my sins, I won't provide the details here, because that could be used by extremist, religious fanatics to support the argument that I had full knowledge of my actions.  On the other hand, I've used the defense of "not guilty by reason of insanity" successfully in the past, so maybe it'll work again.  I have plenty of friends who will attest to my inability to make rational decisions when I shift into a quixotic  state.  By the way, in case you didn't know, quixotic rhymes with Twixotic.  You say the X in the usual English way, not an H like when you say Don Quixote.   But I digress.

Back to my legal defense.  I also have some licensed professionals who would take the stand to defend me, I'm sure.  (See comments above re rusty nails, and you'll understand the severity of my "challenges.")  OCD is a bitch.  Crazy-making.  It's what causes me to have such extreme, compulsive tendancies toward the evil princes of darkness who constantly attack me.  Specifically, Comcast, health insurance companies, and too many others to name.

Well, I'm thinking that unless I act on my evil impulses, I don't need to worry.  On the other hand, I seem to remember hearing something to the effect that if we think it in our heart, it's the same as doing it.  I think it's attributed to JC.  That is, Jimmy Carter.

Wow.  Crazy, huh?  Not like me at all.  Gotta run.  Literally.  It's time to retrieve some rusty nails from the mean streets of Memphis..

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Rites of Passage

I took Sally to get spayed this morning.  She could be in surgery at this very moment.  I am surprised at how nervous I am.  I've had that surgery, and I know first hand how awful it is.  They asked me if I wanted pain medicine for her.  What kind of monster wouldn't give their puppy relief after being sliced open.  I guess someone who didn't want to spend the extra $12.  The same kinda person who rushes their offsprings' potty training (and thus inflicting severe emotional damage) because they don't want to buy diapers.  Once on the local news, I saw a story about the boyfriend of some pathetic excuse for a mother who beat the baby to death because she pooped in her pants.

This stuff stirs up violent, Death Wishesque, vengeful thoughts in me.  I think every idiot who leaves their child/dog in the car in the summer oughta have to sit locked in a car in full sun in July until they die.  The monsters who use pit bulls to fight to the death for their entertainment should be thrown to some of those hungry dogs they tie to stakes and neglect in their yard.

I could go on and on, but I'm shaking.  So I should stop.  Because I still haven't resolved my problems with Comcrap.  Or wrangling with my new insurance which doesn't have prescription coverage, which means it'll cost me three times the insurance premium to buy my drugs.  Then there's the mammo thing.  Between dealing with insurance company, the preferred provider company, and the clueless providers themselves, I'm on the verge of using an apple corer to remove the suspicious lump myself.  I spent three crazy-making hours on the phone yesterday - two of which were spent listening to crappy pseudo-jazz hold music.  I'm not crazy about jazz to start with.  Maybe that's good though.  It would probably be unbearable if I did.  I guess the only thing worse would be porn movie music.  Not that I know about that first-hand.  I've just heard it's really bad.  No wonder you never see skin flick soundtracks for sale.  Wow, I just had a scary thought.  What if they played porn music while you were on hold?  I shudder to think.

As usual, I have so many unpleasant things to do, that I'm overwhelmed.  Which is why I sit here blogging instead of doing them.  This, after I made myself stop doing crossword puzzles for way too long.  It's all I can do not to tuck into my new David Sedaris book.  I love him.  He makes my life seem somewhat normal.

Ok.  It's time to face the music.  More hold music.  At least it's not the porn kind.

Over and out... 

Friday, June 14, 2013

The Eagle has Landed

The Eagle being The Daddler.  He just got home from a week with two of his brothers and their wives.  They go to Gatlinburg every fall, and he and Mother used to go, too.  The D hasn't been since Mother died almost three years ago.  I don't think they went the year or two before that since Mother's health was so bad.  So it had been a long time.  He was really happy and excited when they invited him.

I started thinking that this is the first time I've been home alone since The D and I became roomies.  Wow.  What freedom!  Especially since Kiddo is in NYC doing his big internship.  I could transform this multi-generational abode into a swingin' bachelorette pad for four days and nights. 

I wish I could say that it was like Grand Central Station here.  That I had a stream of friends coming over and hanging out at all hours.  Sleepovers with all my besties, complete with constant chick flicks, trash-talkin' and junk food.  That I had every spare minute crammed full of  "me time."  I hate that phrase, by the way.  It sounds so hokey.  But I can't think of anything better to describe what I had in mind.

Instead, it turned out to be pretty lonely, and very quiet.  I did random things around the house and yard, read and did crossword puzzles, sat on the patio in my swimsuit, took occasional dips in my new kiddie pool (Sally loved it.)  The only company I had was one friend who stayed a couple hours.  Other than that, it was me and the dogs.   I was surprised to find myself missing The D on the second day.   I didn't miss fixing his meals, though.

Back to the dogs.  They were experiencing severe separation anxiety.  They went nuts when he got home today.  I swear, I could hook them behind a plow and they'd outdo any mules around.  They're incredibly strong.  I had them on their leashes, waiting in the front yard for The D's big arrival.  It was a sweet reunion.  For me, too.  In fact, I was surprised when The Daddler made a bee-line for me and gave me a big hug.  Pleasantly, of course.  Maybe he missed me, too.

He brought me a few gifts.  Namely, some fried apple pies from some place called The Apple Barn.  A loaded baked potato soup mix.  And a tiny bottle of maple syrup.  Since I don't eat any of those things, and he loves them, it's the equivalent of a husband buying his wife a power saw for her birthday.  Or sexy lingerie. 

Speaking of gifts, I've decided to skip the Father's Day gifts.  Instead, I'm gonna fix a nice lunch.  Little sis will come, and nothing could make him happier.

Well, I'm gonna wrap up this post and go spend a little quality time napping on the sofa with Fox News blaring on the TV.  Now, that'll feel like home...

Monday, June 10, 2013

Hell hath no fury...

...like me.  When it comes to Comcrap.

After four weeks of fucking with those idiots, I still haven't resolved the problem (namely, the two-plus years of double billing.)  Sooo, this morning, I talked with a friend who's a partner at their audit firm (since clearly they are the Enron of the 2000-teens - what do you call this decade?)  After that, I talked to an attorney in the SEC's fraud department.  By the way, she hates Comcast, too.  Funny, huh?  She told me how to file a complaint there, and said I should also file one with the FCC.  The forms are hot off the press.

Then, I called Comcast's legal compliance department.  Of course, I had to leave a message - they can't be bothered with answering the phone.  Maybe instead of calling the Routine Requests and Information Line, I should've tried the Imminent Loss of Life or Body Injury line.  Which might have been appropriate considering the extremely violent thoughts I've been having.

So, between Deloitte and Touche (the auditors), the SEC and FCC, and extortion, I should get some results soon.  Actually, extortion isn't the right term, unless you consider threats to hire the shadiest attorney I can find to sue the defendant for a bazillion dollars in both criminal and civil courts.  And to make the talk show circuit, appear on national news and Court TV (Nancy Grace is a close, personal friend of mine,) unless I'm well compensated for financial, emotional, and physical (my cortisol levels are surging,) damages.  Of course, I'll be subtle about how I express my willingness to cut a deal, given that they have what I'm sure is a huge in-house counsel department, and they'd slap a counter-suit on me as quickly as you can say "Bob's your uncle."  On the other hand, it would be a pain in the ass for them to have to deal with the SEC and FCC.  And their auditors.

Wow.  Do I sound like a lunatic?  If so, it's all Comcast's fault.

Now, for something positive.  The Daddler left for Gatlinburg at 5:45 this morning.  He's going with two brothers and their wives.  This is the very first time I will have been home alone since we became roommates.  Kiddo is in NYC for his internship, so I am footloose and fancy free.  I'm closing the kitchen - it's peanut butter sammiches for me for the next five days.  I can walk around nekkid, play the stereo as loud as I want, and have wild parties if I want.  The possibilites are endless.

On that note, I shouldn't be wasting time on this silly blog.  Adventure awaits me.  And hopefully, justice...

Thursday, May 23, 2013

Comcast Takes First Prize...

...for the company with the worst customer service in America.  Google it.

I discovered this fascinating fact when I decided to investigate the commenter who always pops up to leave a consoling comment on my posts about the evil, execrable, accursed C-Crap.  See, I wasn't born yesterday, so I knew better than to think that Comcast had an employee (or even an automated web crawler) on hand to "reach out" to a disgruntled customer/blogger.  And I'm not stupid enough to click on an email address to a nice sounding Mark Something or Other at the caring URL called WeCareAboutYouAndWantToHelpAndWeAreSorryYouAreExperiencingProblemsWithYourServiceWeAppreciateYouAndItIsOurMissionInLife ToMeetAllYourWorldlyNeeds.comcast.com.  Seriously.  I can suspend my disbelief long enough to enjoy an occasional sci-fi movie, and even once in a while, a cute rom-com.  Well, that last one's a stretch.  Why is it all the chick-flicks are so stupidly, saccharinely, sickeningly sentimental?

But I digress.  My main point was to let you know that everything isn't what it appears to be.  There are two truths I hold dear.  The relevant one here is "If it seems too good to be true, it is."  Or should that be, "isn't?"  Hmmm.  Maybe I should put it this way:  "If it seems too good be true, it's a big fat lie and you're an inane idiot/sucker if you believe it."  So that's why I'm too smart/suspicious/skeptical to fall for the average internet scam.  Especially after that stupid FaceBook IQ test that dinged my cell phone for 99 cents five times in four minutes.  Wow.  How embarrassing.  And apt.  Obviously, my IQ was sub-par that day.

The other, equally cynical, tenet I'd love to share, will have to wait until later.  It deserves its own blog post. 

Ok, my blood pressure is rising, so I'm leaving.  Later...

Comcast is Killing Me!

Oh.   My.   God.

I have just spent an hour on the horn with the bane of my existence - Comcrap.  I know I've ranted about them here repeatedly, but I have to do it again, before my head explodes.  Not that my rants prevent that.  It's so I can document Comcast's causal liability for my demise.  So that my heirs will have plenty of hard evidence when they file the $10 million product liability lawsuit.  But if I make it through this without spontaneously combusting (is that a word?), maybe I could file a class-action lawsuit, because I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only poor schmo who's been double-billed by this blood-sucking, money-grubbing excuse for a technology company.  I won't even get started on the countless calls I've made to the tech department in an attempt to resolve problems with my internet and cable tv connections, logging on to my account, retrieving my email, and so much more. 

I wish I could take the time to record this latest cluster-fuck, but my hands are shaking so much I can barely type.

I missed my kick-boxing class.  It's a damn shame because it might have prevented my death (I could tape the logo to the punching bag and vent my frustrations on that)  which was caused by Comcast.

Hey, here's another idea.  I could write a suicide note saying I was jumping off the Mississippi river bridge because I'd lost my will to live (they'd never find my body in The Big Muddy,) all because of Comcast.  First though, I'll have to set up an unnumbered Swiss bank account and give wiring instructions to Kiddo.  Knowing him, though, I'd never see a penny of it.

Gotta go.  Need to get a paper bag and try to stop this damn hyperventilating...

Monday, May 6, 2013

Crazy Busy

It's a nice feeling.  I always have plenty to do, but somehow, I just procrastinate forever.  That creates so much anxiety.  Which causes me to throw up my hands and shift into avoidance mood.  So I've spent way too many hours lounging on the sofa, listing to the same old shit over and over again on Fox News (The Daddler watches it day and night) and doing crossword puzzles, texting, playing Words With Friends, and other unproductive pursuits. 

In the last coupla weeks, however, I've sprung into action.  Lots of new stuff going on, including:  Taekwondo and cardio kick classes; getting back to running; doing re-fi's on two of my houses; taking Lucy and Sally to the vet all the time; mowing and gardening; and working on my new rental house.  All this on top of the regular stuff like taking The D to the doctor, laundry, grocery shopping, cooking and cleaning...

The rental house has turned into a full time job.  So much to do.  Painting everything inside.  Buying supplies.  Mowing the lawn and weeding the beds and pruning the shrubs.  Knocking out tile in the bathroom.  Cleaning the windows.  Measuring for blinds (gotta buy the blinds.)  Getting bids for the bigger stuff.  Keeping the books and managing cash flow. 

On top of all this, my social life is improving.  Funny how it's feast or famine.  I've been feasting lately.  Last week, I decided to go on a diet (figuratively speaking.)  So I'm thinning the herd.  I hate doing that.  But I just don't have time to hang out with people I don't enjoy.  Besides, all those dinners out have taken their toll on my figure, so I've also started a literal diet.

I'm feeling good about these decisions.  I'm making progress on my endless To Do list - it feels good to actually finish some of my projects.

Unfortunately, though, I haven't had much time to blog.  It's so therapeutic for me, but so is exercise and sunshine and fresh air, so I'm gonna be kinda scarce on here for a while.  But life is full of trade-offs, and a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Until next time...

Saturday, April 27, 2013

My Latest Couch Surfer

A few months ago, in a fit of boredom, I decided to become a Couch Surfer.  https://www.couchsurfing.org/  Here's a short summary of what it's about: 

Couchsurfing is a global community of 6 million people in more than 100,000 cities who share their life, their world, their journey. Couchsurfing connects travelers with a global network of people willing to share in profound and meaningful ways, making travel a truly social experience.

At the end of January, I hosted a lovely young woman, Angela, from Brazil.  Interestingly enough, she was from Porto Alegre.  The very place I visited a few years ago. 

Dan is from London.  He's 37 years old and gay.  Which is why I invited him.  Still, I had second thoughts right before he arrived.  My imagination is quite vivid (imagine my saying that with a British accent,) and the thought crossed my mind that he could be a serial killer posing as a harmless, jolly, Englishman.  So at the first opportunity, I mentioned that I have a gun, and that I'm proficient in Taekwondo.  He was a tad taken aback.  A discussion ensued about the utopian gun-free society of the UK.  I said, "Dude, you're not in Kensington any more, and I WILL put a cap in yo' ass."  Unfortunately, I don't know where the bullets are.  But he didn't know that.  Since he looked a little shaken up, I decided against acting out the scene from Annie Hall where Christopher Walken (Diane Keaton's brother) is driving Woody Allen from the airport, and asks him if he ever had the impulse to swerve into oncoming traffic.  One of my favorite movie scenes.

It was totally benevolent, though.  I just wanted him to experience a nice slice of life in Memphis.  I really am a very gracious hostess.  Why else would I eat barbeque three days in a row?  Take him to Graceland (I just dropped him off, though,) spend hours on Beale Street, and introduce him to my coolest friends?  Pick him up at the Greyhound station and drop him off at the airport?  About the Greyhound station.  He called me when his bus pulled up.  I told him he'd know me because I was the only white person there.  But I think I might've said it a little too loudly, because I noticed quite a few stink-eyes after that.  When the passengers on his bus shuffled into the station, I was a little freaked out, because there were several very weird men (it had been a while since I'd looked at his picture,) and making eye contact with them was a little scary.

But all's well that ends well.  I convinced Deb that he hadn't stolen the silver or my identity.

Now, I'm going to close.  Because I have fun plans for tonight.  With the cutest, funniest, sweetest guy I've met in a very long time.  So I'm gonna get started with some serious primping right now...

Sunday, April 7, 2013


Wow!  Here's my rental house - my old house.  The house I loved.  I lived there for 22 years.  Raised Kiddo there.  Made a home for The Daddler there when Mother died.  I have so many pleasant memories of my time there, but too many painful ones, too.  Bittersweet, I suppose.

I was fortunate to be able to hang onto it when I found The Good House two years ago.  I've had two short-term tenants since then.  They were friends of friends.  I'll just say that I'll never again do biz with someone I know.  Because it's never arm's length.  That's an audit concept, with good reason.  It's a recipe for disaster.

So, I was pleasantly surprised when my latest tenant (the Princess,) texted me that she was moving out.  Maybe her parents cut her off (her mom paid the rent,) or her new husband grew a pair and decided to contribute to the cause.  Forgive me.  I'm about to sound like a snob, but I need to vent my spleen.  So I'll just put it out there.  She probably qualifies as a member of the Southern Aristocracy.  It was a rude awakening to her, being forced to live without granite countertops and a Viking stove.  I hated to turn her down when she offered to update the kitchen in lieu of rent.

Back to the future.  She vacated the premises at the end of March.  I took the path of least resistance, and waited to put a sign in the yard until she was gone. It was so unpleasant when her asshole-husband told me I could "fuckin' sue him" if I tried to show the house before they moved.  What a Prince Charming. 

So, Thursday afternoon, I put the sign in the yard.  Friday morning, I received a call. Friday afternoon, my propective tenants took a look.  Friday night, they asked me to hold the house.  Saturday morning, I inked the deal.  A three-year lease, no less!  Sweet, sweet family.  They wanted to move in immediately.  They'd been searching for months for a house in that neighborhood.  It's the best school district in town.  Not to mention, a great neighborhood.  And of course, a wonderful house.

So, all's well that ends well.  Huge relief.  Now I'm going to work on getting my latest parcel ready to rent.  I have a feeling it'll be equally successful...

Monday, March 11, 2013

Call me Leona

As in Leona Helsmley.   Because I've joined the ranks of Real Estate Mavens.  Just this morning, I added the third rental property to my portfolio.  It's been a very time-consuming endeavor, but since I have plenty of time, it's a good thing.  In addition, I've been working on renting The Good House.  I've had a couple great prospective tenants.  Very cute, professional young couples.  I've had a little trouble with the current princess tenant when it comes to trying to show/advertise it, and I hate conflict, but I'm on the verge of channeling Leona. A/K/A, the Queen of Mean.

I'll be so glad to get rid of The Princess.  Especially since my rent revenue will increase 75%.  Crazy, huh?  No more Friends and Family Discounts here.

So, on top of managing my new real estate empire, I'm sticking with Taekwondo (skipped today, though, after getting lost in the hilly woods of Shelby Forest yesterday - soooo sore.)  TKD has come in handy with Sally and Lucy.  I've been using the roundhouse kick to keep them from jumping up on me with their muddy paws.  I'm beginning to think Sally is the Spawn of Satan.  Hound of the Baskervilles.  Half pit bull.  The other night, I had a nightmare involving being chased by pit bulls.  She's vicious.  I need to up my homeowners coverage.

Well, better run.  I need to get the key at the new house - it's under the mat.


Thursday, March 7, 2013

Comcast - My Undoing

Just shoot me.  I've lost my will to live.  Comcast has sucked it from the marrow of my bones.

I've spent the last hour and a half trying to trouble-shoot the error messages I've been getting in my email account.  I've desperately avoided calling the Anti-Chrast.  But my will is broken.

The next time I go to kick-boxing class, I'm going to tape the logo of the Evil One to my bag.  I think I'll get a better workout that way.

Sooo, they've brought me to my knees.  The fix I received, after a 93 minute investment of time two days ago, has expired.  My will is broken.  As soon as I finish up here, I'm going to call.

Only because:

A) I'm trying to send Kiddo a spreadsheet with every single piece of data he could possibly need for his trip to Dubai which starts tomorrow (including emergency contact information, the phone number and address of the American Hospital, credit card international collect phone numbers, and the phone number and address of the U.S. Embassy.  I just watched Argo - can you tell?)

B)  I'm trying to consummate a big (for me) real estate deal, and I have three unsent important documents in my outbox, and who knows how many important documents waiting in Comcast's version of the dead letter office.

With that, I'll sign off.  And while I'm on hold, I'll plan their demise.  Pray for me...

Monday, March 4, 2013

My Undoing

Comcast.  They are evil.  I'm going to start a jihad against them.  If my head doesn't explode first.

Sunday, March 3, 2013


Here's the path of destruction left in Sally's wake.  One picture is worth a thousand words...  And these thousand words include quite a few expletives...

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Grey Skies

A view from my patio.  It's a perfect picture of my day.
I'm so ready for spring.
I want to spring my clock forward.
Watch my garden spring to life.
Spring this prison called winter.

Saturday, February 23, 2013


It's official.  I'm a martial artist!  I took my first class yesterday.  In Taekwondo.  Don't f--- with me.  Because I learned how to punch, kick, jab and block.  I'm fearless.  Except I'm afraid of the situps.  Give me a mugger anyday.  Just don't make me work on my core.

I think I benefitted from my endless hours of yoga.  And watching boxing.  And psychotherapy...

And reading Shades of Grey.  Because there's an element of submissiveness.  SOG glamorizes that.  I can't buy into it, but I guess I can accept the idea, if it makes me fearless, calm, and able to leap through the air like that cute girl in Crouching Tigers, Hidden Dragons.  Or is it Hidden Tigers, Crouching Dragons?  Crouching Dragons, Hidden Tigers?  Damn.  This is worse than Men are from Venus, Women are from Mars.   Or that stupid movie - Men are like Dogs, Women are like Cats.  Can that be right?  Surely not.  Someone should make a rule that movie titles can't be more than three words long.  Forget trying to come up with some unique title for a sequel.  Stick a roman numeral behind the original title. Godfather.  Godfather II.  Godfather III.  That's it. Think of how much money that would save.  I'm sure the marketing gurus charge out the ass to come up with something catchy.  When all we want to know is where it falls in the timeline. 

Ok.  I took a muddy hike at Shelby Forest this morning.  My hiking boots fell apart (it's been a long time since I've used them.)  So between Taekwondo and hiking, I'm pooped.  Sore.  I think I'll take a hot bath.  And hope Sally doesn't wake me up before 4 in the morning...